Everything changed, when Jigsaw arrived. The world went to bed and everything was normal, and when we woke up nothing was the same. Nothing would ever be the same. Jigsaw didn't care. Jigsaw could not be bargained with, could not be stopped. Jigsaw was relentless. Did not care about colour, sex, race, religion, age. Did not care if you were gay or straight. Was indifferent to your lifestyle choices, what clothes you wore, whether you worked hard or lived on the streets. Jigsaw loved all people, equally.

Nobody knew where it came from. Jigsaw arrived like the weather, overnight, everywhere at once. There was panic in the streets, rioting, looting. Worldwide. Can you imagine? Tens of Thousands died. Governments denied responsibility, and then blamed each other. For a time, the world stood on the brink of nuclear Armageddon. People barely noticed in the panic. Eventually, it was understood Jigsaw was not man made. That was all that they ever understood. They begged people to be calm as they tried to find a cure. How could they, though? Jigsaw was unlike anything the world had ever known.

I remember when I first saw it. I was sitting at a pavement cafe, drinking coffee with my wife. Suddenly, the peace of the day was shattered. A man screaming. I looked up, alarmed, in time to see him running towards me. His scream was unending, it seemed. I couldn't move with fright as he crashed into our table.

I struggled to take in what I was looking at. The man had only one arm. Not that out of the ordinary, granted. But his face.... my God. It still shocks me, thinking back; although I have seen Jigsaw at work a thousand times since then.

His face was missing a large cube of flesh, perfectly straight edged, like a child's building block. He looked like a medical dissection model. I could see the inner workings of his head. There was his brain in cross section, the veins, the nasal cavity. He was not bleeding. It seemed more like a section of his head was simply invisible, and I was looking at what was left. The half of his mouth I could see opened, and his one eye fixed on me. I will never forget the desperate insanity I saw there.

“Help me!” He shrieked. “Please! My arm! My face!” The rest was lost as the horror of it overtook him, and he ran on, still screaming, not waiting to see if I might be able to help.

My wife was white faced with shock. There was stunned silence in the cafe for a moment. Then, I heard a small 'pop', like a champagne cork. It was a comical sound; a weird punch line to the madness we had just seen. I felt a laugh bubbling up, and went to take my wife's hand. It died on my lips as I touched her palm – her fingers were gone, and her wedding ring was lying on the table.

* * * *

“The Missing”. That's what they call those who Jigsaw has taken. It's a safe, easy term for it. Politically correct. It doesn't begin to describe the horror of seeing loved ones dismantled in front of your eyes.

That's how Jigsaw works. Once you have it, bits of you start to disappear. You hear that inconsequential little noise and four of your fingers are gone. Then you hear it again. Maybe a hand or a foot this time. A chunk from your chest, or stomach, or thigh. There is no pain, just another square shaped piece of you missing. It's fast – Jigsaw victims rarely last more than a month, then they are gone completely. Nobody can help. There is no cure. There are only questions. How can you remain alive, when most of you has vanished? Where are you disappearing to? Are you dead, once you're gone? Are you being rebuilt, somewhere else?

Nobody knows. I suspect no one will ever know – until Jigsaw takes them. It doesn’t matter, in the end – the world faced atomic Armageddon, only to discover a different fate had already begun. Jigsaw is the end of everything as we know it. One day, all of us will be Missing. Maybe we were missing something already, some vital part of that which makes us human, and Jigsaw is our judgement. In the end, all we have left are questions; maybe all that’s really missing are answers.

Please God, let me finish this. It’s eating me alive. It just took my other hand. It’s so hard to type with only one finger, and when that goes I’m lost. I don’t think I have much time and I have so much more to

It had to be in there, somewhere. No one had been in the hall closet since the bad thing happened, and Caleb had already looked everywhere else.

He’d looked in his room; under his bed and through all his drawers. In his toy box he found his Transformer with the flames and a sock with a red stripe.

After he looked in the low cabinets, he dragged his Tigger stool into the kitchen and climbed on the counter to look up high. He found some old Halloween candy and some dust, but not much else. When he’d wiggled under the couch Caleb had been sure he’d find it. There were lots of lost things under there: A Matchbox car, an empty juice box, a Christmas bow, Dad’s brown tie and a few Lego’s but those weren’t what he was looking for.

Way in the back under the bathroom sink he found a bar of yellow soap that was curled up and cracked and a toothbrush still in the package. In the coat closet by the front door he found the plastic brush thing for the vacuum. There wasn’t ever anything under the dining room table but Caleb looked anyway, just in case. He went into Amy’s room even though he knew Momma had packed all her things and there was nothing left in there. Dad said Amy didn’t need them anymore because she was in heaven. There wasn’t anything under Momma and Dad’s bed, but he found the construction paper card he made for Dad and one of Momma’s bra-things behind their dresser.

He’d looked everywhere else so it had to be in the hall closet. He wasn’t scared but it was dark and smelled funny which is why he hadn’t looked in there yet; the hall closet had always made him think of monsters. Caleb didn’t know where the monster that hurt Amy was locked up, but he suspected it might be the hall closet.

Momma still missed Amy, but for some reason she also cried about Caleb. Talking to Dad, she’d broken into sobs that made Caleb’s chest hurt and his throat clench and he’d barely been able to understand her, but she was crying about what Caleb had lost the day the bad thing happened.

He and Amy had been playing in the plastic pool in the front yard when the blow-up ball bounced away across the lawn. Amy and Caleb weren’t allowed to go in the street, but the ball stopped on the sidewalk, so Amy went to get it.

Caleb remembered the sound the car had made, a monster growl and metal screech accompanied by the monstrous smells of hot oil and melting rubber. Then there was nothing but shining blue metal and Amy flying through the air when the car roared onto the sidewalk where it was supposed to be safe. Caleb screamed and Momma came running from the flowerbed with a little shovel in her hand. She had tripped and skinned her knees but she didn’t cry: She lurched up and ran to Amy who lay in the neighbor’s yard, her pink swimsuit turning red. The man in the car got out and walked crooked and then sat down on the sidewalk blinking slowly. Momma screamed. First all alone, then with the ambulance’s siren, and then with the police car sirens. The man from the car hadn’t looked like a monster, he just blinked and swayed and blew in a little balloon for a policeman. The ambulance took Amy away, then the policemen took the man away.

Caleb didn’t like thinking about it, so he thought about looking instead. The hall closet was the last place. Caleb pushed the red button on Dad’s flashlight and opened the door and his throat tried to clench shut. He stepped into the closet wrinkling his nose at the smell and cringing when some hangers jangled above him. He didn’t see it, but it had to be here! Frantic, he started dumping boxes and looking in the corners. He still didn’t find it. His nose was getting stuffy and his eyes were watering and he was scared but he couldn’t give up. Then something fell on his head. He squealed shrilly and dropped the flashlight and it went out and he was in the dark with the funny smell and maybe the monster that killed Amy.

Caleb was sobbing by now, trying to find the door, but he couldn’t find that either. He screamed, sure the monster would come and kill him, too. He bumped into the wall and another coat fell on his head and his feet got tangled and he fell.

When Momma opened the door Caleb leapt shrieking into her arms. She shushed him and rocked him and told him it was okay, but he couldn’t stop crying. He hadn’t found it, couldn’t find it, and he’d looked everywhere and he cried that he was sorry.

“What can’t you find honey?” Momma asked as she rocked him and held him close.

“My innocence! You said I lost it and I can’t find it and I need it to make you smile!”

It was slow, and a little sad, but Momma’s smile came back for a moment. She brushed Caleb’s hair off of his forehead and wiped a few tears from his cheeks and said that she’d been wrong; he hadn’t lost it, after all.

“Why do they have everyone over if they can’t be bothered to prepare properly?” snickered Ryan, watching his wife’s face twitch as she strove to maintain her calm while driving. “Every year, it’s the same, stuff the car with camping gear, drive for five hours and then wonder what it is that your brother’s family will swipe during the reunion. Won’t they ever learn?”

Sandra remembered how these meetings had first started when their mother passed away a few years ago. They had decided, while still at the funeral home, to reunite during the summer and keep the family together. Joey and Irene’s cottage on the Bay seemed like an ideal place for what was to become a tradition. They shared a common meal on Saturday, with everyone responsible for a dish or two.

Sandra and Ryan had laughed at her family’s stinginess. They both recalled their nephew’s stunned look when her sister-in-law, Joanne, had asked him to return the second potato from his plate, explaining with great care that there was only one per person.

When a similar incident happened with drumsticks the next year, they had not been so amused. After all, they had brought over the chicken and knew that there was definitely enough for more than one piece each. That night, the missing pieces had showed up by the fire as a late snack in their brother Mike’s cooler; he had even had the guts to offer some around, praising an old family recipe.

Then there had been the year of the disappearing bottles; funny how everyone drank so many varieties, including those brewed in artisan setups where other family members lived. “I think I’ll get myself a beer” had taken on a new meaning, as no one knew whose cooler would be raided.

As they drove down the hill towards the Bay where the cottage awaited them, Sandra couldn't help herself: “I wonder, what will go missing this year?” They both sighed.

The cottage had been partly remodeled since the last visit and the sandy beach glowed from the evening sun. Both went unnoticed as arms stretched out to hug siblings and their families for a tad longer than they would usually. Most had not seen each other since Mike’s unexpected death last fall.

Three tents were already up by the cedars and another one was soon installed. Ryan joined Sandra by the fire pit where others were chitchatting and reacquainting themselves while sipping scotch or downing beers.

Familiar voices reached the camp site area. More relatives installed their chairs in what had started out as a circle. Others squished in haphazardly.

“So who’s missing?” The question from the preteen’s shrilly voice fell flat and stopped all conversation. Only cracking logs and spitting sparks could be heard.

“Well?” she insisted, her voice amplified by the breeze. The sky seemed to dim in those brief seconds. Lowered eyes avoided each other and stared into the fire.

“Joanne’s not here.” The sister-in-law, now the only link to their deceased brother, had called to say that she would find it too hard to be with them in a place charged with so many memories.

“I miss Uncle Mike.” The silence was broken by a soft voice. Marylou was playing quietly in the sand by the fire. “He showed me how to build the best sand castles.”

Stifled sobs could be heard coming from the girl’s father, hidden in the shadows. She turned towards him. “Remember when he took us to the tractor pull competition?”

From another end of the improvised circle, a low male voice shared: “Last summer, we started building a bridge over the creak with the dead wood from the ice storm.” His voice showed excitement. “We were like two schoolboys on a secret mission. It’s not very solid but I found myself going towards it quite a few times since... We were to finish it this spring.” His voice broke: “I don’t think I can ever work on it again.”

The stories and memories started to unfold, going from sentimental and mellow to funny and mischievous.

To her husband Joey, Irene pointed out loudly: “What about the time you and Mikey put your sister’s head in the toilet bowl for squealing about your drinking?”

“You told her about that? It was so humiliating. I hated you both!” hollered Sandra over the general laughter, smiling in spite of herself. “I probably wouldn’t have said anything if you two hadn’t taken the booze from my stash; you were both born stingy!”

Any remaining tension seemed to have dissipated as stories immerged of Mike’s resourcefulness in many spheres of life, including family reunions.

As the fire died down, families made their way to their installations, and Sandra and Ryan stayed behind, watching silhouettes move by moonlight and flashlights. “This evening was nice; I’m glad we got to talk about Mike; he’ll always be missed, especially when we find ourselves together here.”

The next morning, when she reached the improvised dining area, Sandra heard her brother telling his wife: “I’m sure they won’t notice if I take their coffee; they’ll blame it on Mikey.” As he caught her eye, they exchanged a smile, knowing that their late brother’s spirit was not about to go missing.

The sun was brilliant that day. In each majestic tree, every dew-glistened blade of grass and all the flawless roses in the garden, its light seemed to be captured and recreated by a thousand master artists. Mark noticed neither this nor the arrival of the ten man landscaping team it took to maintain the estate’s beauty as such. This was a daily routine; staring out the window, hoping for just an ounce of recollection while his band (former band), Abhorrent Destiny, played on the stereo. He used the window as a memory aid because it was a favorite spot of his in the house. The music was another theoretical memory triggering device. And why shouldn’t it be? He had written the majority of songs on their 7 albums.

Mark knew these facts about himself only because they were things his wife (soon to be ex-wife), doctor and ex-band mates had told him was so. Nearly two years previous he had run his pristine 1974 Honda 750 motorcycle into a concrete highway divider sending him skipping like a leather stone across three lanes of freeway, breaking thirteen bones, severely fracturing his skull despite his helmet and wiping his memory clean. Fifteen years living the booze and drug-filled life of a rock star had played its part in the memory loss as well though.

Hypnosis, psychotherapy, Amytal (a drug commonly used in treating amnesia), if it had a chance of awaking his memory, they had tried it. Still he always sat in front of that window and on the days he could stomach it, listened to the CDs. It didn’t matter at this point though. After two years even the doctors had given up hope.

“Honey, the movers will be here shortly for the last load of my things.” Said his ex-wife Julia, waking him from his trance.

“Sorry. I mean Mark. Old habits.” She corrected. This was Mark’s requested revision, not hers. He felt it would be easier on her to distance herself as much as possible. After all, he hadn’t been able conjure up any of the feelings he surely had for this woman at some point. He had tried and in the end she decided it was best if she moved on. Mark agreed. He was no longer that man she had fallen in love with so many years ago when he was just a dumb kid playing guitar in a beat up old garage. At some point their combined frustrations over the amnesia were going to tear them apart anyway.

“Thank you. For everything.” He stammered. “I wish-“

“We’ve already been through that. Please don’t. I can’t do it right now.”

“I know…” and he stopped himself. This was only going to lead where it almost always did the past year or so; attempts of both to help the other resulting in arguments over the past. She’d been through enough lately and would soon have to go through much worse. Hardly fair to her being that the man she cared for so much couldn’t remember anything about her before the moment of waking that day in the hospital.

She had been at his side as she had been the entire week he’d been unconscious. The first few months were filled with patience on everyone’s part. Members of the band would spend hours recalling crazy tour stories in hopes of at least letting him know who he was, if not bringing his memory back altogether. They showed him pictures and home videos. This didn’t go over well. Mark was unable to see himself like this without wanting to vomit. Once a brilliant musician, he now couldn’t play a single note. He had tried many times to pick up a guitar again. Even if he had possessed the knowledge to play, he had sustained too much nerve damage in his left hand to even hold the damned thing for very long.

Eventually the band was forced to move on. They tried to check in with him often but Mark refused to see them. They still called Julia to see how she and Mark were doing. No one was really surprised when they heard the couple was splitting. Mark had a temper back in the days when he was still himself. That part hadn’t changed. Personality is apparently like riding a bike and if he didn’t watch it he was going to ride it down a very beaten, very unnecessary path.

“…I’m losing my mind. Oops. Bad choice of words. Sorry.” said Julia.

Mark had been drifting in space again. Hard to blame him. Losing thirty-eight years of memories tends to make you check on the ones you have fairly often. Julia had either not noticed him daydreaming again or not cared. More likely, she noticed and let it go. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

“It’s fine.” He said as he grabbed his cane and hobbled over to give her a hug.

“You know where to reach me if you need anything.” She said and kissed him softly on the cheek before walking out the door and driving away.

Mark locked the door and turned the stereo up even though it was making him slightly ill to hear the stranger that was himself. He went to the front closet and pulled out his Glock .45 handgun and placed the barrel in his mouth.

Tom woke feeling refreshed and well rested. He got up slowly, careful not to disturb Susan who was sleeping serenely on her side of the bed. It was about an hour before dawn, yet outside the first birds were already greeting the new day. He usually got up at this hour as it was his favourite time of day. Today he would surprise Susan with breakfast in bed.

He went to the bathroom and opened the faucet, letting the water flow over the back of his hand. The handsome guy in the mirror smiled back at him. He applied lightly scented shaving cream, then picked up his razor and started scraping the stubble from his face.

He paused in mid stoke and lifted the razor from his cheek. A small droplet of blood appeared from a minute cut, it blended with the white foam turning it sickly pink. Tom felt a little irate towards himself. He's never cut himself shaving. His mind started wandering. Gradually, an uneasy feeling started taking shape in the back of his head. He couldn’t quite place the eerily discomforting sensation. Something was out of place.

Tom splashed some cold water in his face and patched the cut with a piece of tissue paper.

He decided to do something to put his mind at ease. He checked up on Susan and found that she was still sleeping peacefully. He looked out of the big windows of their bedroom. Although he couldn’t see much detail outside, the predawn provided enough light to assure him that all was fine. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing.

Missing. Lost. It was the first time that he could put a single impression to the now brooding feeling that had invaded his morning bliss.

Tom put on his shoes and went to the kitchen to brew up some relieve in the form of caffeine. He decided to go through the whole house and check all the doors and windows, but all were intact. After pouring himself some coffee he decided to go outside.

He checked the front and back yards, walked around the swimming pool and even unlocked the shed to see if anything was out of place. What was his intuition telling him?

Although Tom didn’t believe in “spidey-sense” or any other super natural powers, he did strongly believe in the human mind being very alert and being able to convert the smallest bits of information into sometimes life-saving decisions and actions. When he was in ‘Nam, being tuned into this highly evolved intuition, had often saved his and some of his fellow soldiers’ lives.

Now Tom’s subconscious was telling him that something was missing. He just had to find out what. He went back into the house and opened the heavy safe that he had bolted to the inside of the closet in the guest room. He started arranging the contents on the bed. The items in the safe mostly consisted of medals and decorations he had received at the end of the war. There was also a shotgun, some cash and his and Susan’s combined will.
He looked through everything but couldn’t find anything missing.

Next he went to the garage and after checking both cars started going through his big lug box, filled with army paraphernalia, still he couldn’t see what had gone missing....

_________________________________________________________

“I think you’d better come over as fast as you can” Susan put down the phone and practically waded her way through what used to be the contents of all the closets in the house, to where she had last seen Tom.

“Tommy, please come and sit down at the table for a while, I’ve asked Pete to come over.”

Tom looked up at Susan from where he was sitting on the floor in the study. Where he had always had a gentle and calm gaze, his eyes were now wild and sweat was beading on his brow.

“I must first find out what is going on. Something is missing and I have to find out what.” Tom was surrounded by pieces of paper strewn over the floor. He had unpacked every box and cupboard in the house.

“Tommy, you are scaring me…”

_________________________________________________________

“I don't understand, he was fine last night…” Susan couldn’t believe what was happening.

“It’s probably just a chemical imbalance,” Pete stood closer and put his arm around his sister’s shoulders. “Things will be back to normal before you know it”

Susan could not block out the words she had overheard one of the white overalls say to the other.

“This one is a total nutter. Definitely lost his mind….”

The sky crackled with fierce energy as Dr. Pienso fiddled with his machinery. For three weeks, he had waited for a thunderstorm with suitable power for his experiment. If it hadn’t been for his daughter Merienda, and his assistant Selo, he would have gone mad with boredom. He had chosen for his laboratory an abandoned castle miles away from any nearby village- why mess with tradition? What he had not considered was the effect this distance would have on his quality of life. The storm had started while he was buying groceries over an hour away, and Dr. Pienso had no way of knowing how much longer the storm would last.

“Come play with me, Daddy!” shouted Merienda, popping out from behind a bench and almost causing the doctor to drop the smoking beakers he was carrying. Holding back a string of curses, Dr. Pienso stared down at a little girl not much older than six, twisting her feet as she smiled wryly up at him.

“Merienda!” he scolded. “What have I told you about disturbing me in the lab? I have a lot of work to do, and no time to play with you tonight. I’m sorry. Please leave Daddy alone, okay?” Merienda began to pout her lip and sniffle, an act that usually got her what she wanted. But not tonight.

Slamming the beakers down on a nearby lab bench, Dr. Pienso purposefully avoided looking into his daughter’s face, lest she twist his emotions. “Merienda Juega Pienso, I do not have time to play with you tonight. Let Daddy have this night alone, and I promise you I will make it up to you in the morning. Now. I am going to count to three. When I turn around, I had better not find you in the lab, okay?” A scampering of feet, the soft shuffling and clanking of wires and clamps, and the slam of an oaken door told him she had left the room. Sighing, the doctor went back to work, fastening a series of glass tubes to the beakers he had brought over.

“For three weeks, she’s never even come close to this wing of the castle,” he muttered to himself. “I haven’t had a single ounce of urgency until tonight, so of course that’s when she wants to latch onto my company,” he said, jamming a rubber stopper into the neck of a bottle for emphasis. “Of all the nights, why tonight!” he shouted aloud, slamming his fists on the bench. The entire glasswork apparatus wobbled, fell, and shattered to the ground.

----------------------------------------------------

“Didn’t need that part of the experiment, anyway” he said, stepping back from the lab table. He hadn’t bothered to clean up the broken glass- he’d just gotten a thicker pair of shoes. “It was really more of a safety thing, anyway. And who needs that? Victor Frankenstein didn’t bother with safety, and everything worked out fine!” He paused. It did work out, didn’t it? It’d been so long since anyone had made him read the book. Well, it wasn’t like he had any choice in the matter. The downpour was beginning to let up. If he let the storm pass, who knew how many weeks he’d have to wait for another storm?

Dr. Pienso flinched at the sound of metal hitting stone. He turned to see his assistant, Selo, standing in the doorway, the wooden door flung wide open. “Master, are you aware that-“

“Ahh, Selo!” he replied, interrupting him in his excitement. “You’re just in time. I’m moments away from throwing the switch,” replied the doctor, beaming.

“Yes, I can see that,” said Selo, staring at the monstrous humanoid body strapped to the table. “But I think you should know that-“

“Nonsense!” replied the doctor, interrupting him again. “I will not have you doubting my work. You know as well as I do that all of our calculations are correct. Now, come, be a witness to the greatest contribution man has made in the field of science!”

“But, sir-“ said Selo, dropping his shoulders in exasperation.

“And be a witness in silence, if you have nothing good to say!” shouted Dr. Pienso, giving his assistant a wicked glare.

“If I must, sir,” sighed Selo, politely folding his hands behind his back. Dr. Pienso made a few last minute adjustments to his machinery, and threw the switch.

“It begins!” he shouted, watching in glee as the power converter slowly raised itself into the dwindling storm. A bolt of lightening struck the metal rod- electricity pulsed through the wires- and the figure on the table… didn’t move.

Crestfallen, Dr. Pienso began a thorough inspection of his machinery. The wires were all connected properly… the adapters had all been thoroughly tightened… “I tried to tell you, Master,” said Selo, wringing his hands. “But you wouldn’t listen.” …the levers and knobs were all set to their proper levels… the brain was…

“The brain!” cried Dr. Pienso, falling to the ground in despair. “What happened to my brain!?”

----------------------------------------------------

“This tea party was an excellent idea, don’t you think?” said Merienda, pouring out imaginary tea into a set of teacups. A few of her stuffed animals were propped at her side, but the seat of honor was reserved for a brain in a jar, sporting a wide-brimmed floral hat. “I’m ever so glad you thought of it. More tea, Mrs. Brain?”

Joey looked the police officer directly in the eyes and told him that he’d been at home with his father when the school windows got broken. A quick check with Hector McGee, the boy’s father, corroborated his story. The father claimed that the boy had been staying close to home ever since his mother had run off two days previously. He hoped his mother would return, or at least call him.

Ted Macey had been a cop for ten years, and the lone officer in this small town for just under a year. When told that he was being transferred there, his ex-colleagues had joked that the powers-that-be had decided that this was where he could do the least harm. Those guys! He sort of missed the banter.

Macey figured he knew when a kid was lying or not. Joey seemed like an upright kid and the family was clean, so he let the matter drop. The description had been pretty vague in any case, so he now looked at his other two possible suspects, Bradley Newton and Mike Dixon.

Bradley and Mike, it transpired, had been playing together down at the old quarry. They’d ridden down there on their bicycles and had stayed for about two hours, just exploring and throwing stones into the artificial lake formed in the depths of the quarry dig. They had only each other as alibis.

During questioning they each admitted to having seen a blue car drive up and a man dumping what looked like an old rolled carpet and some bulked out sheeting, plus some other stuff, into the lake from the cliff above. This didn’t help them, they explained, since they’d remained hidden so the man couldn’t give them clearance. They had each stated that they knew the car driver to be Hector McGee. Macey had deliberately kept the two boys separated for questioning, so this was no contrived story. He believed them.

His suspicions now swung firmly back to Joey McGee. It stood to reason that if McGee was fly-tipping, he surely couldn’t have been at home with Joey. He thought he’d better check out the McGees again.

***

This was a little tin-pot town in the middle of nowhere and, in the greater scheme of things, one broken school window would have been overlooked as accidental; however, every window had been deliberately smashed. There was no way Macey could overlook it. Still … with Joey’s mother having run off without taking him with her, he was going to have to tread carefully. Joey was obviously a traumatised kid.

When McGee was confronted with the evidence that two witnesses had seen him fly-tipping at the quarry lake, he admitted that he hadn’t been at home all the time with Joey. He said he knew that getting rid of some old stuff from the garage that way was illegal, so he’d lied about his own whereabouts in order not to incriminate himself. He felt sure, however, that Joey was innocent. Joey had barely left the seat by the side of the telephone.

After gentle questioning, Joey admitted that he had indeed smashed the windows at the school. He did it, he explained tearfully, because he had just found out that his mother had run off with his teacher, Mr Mulholland. Macey wasn’t without a heart; he kind of felt sorry for the kid.

Having now solved the case, Macey told McGee that if he offered to pay for the windows to be replaced, he felt sure that the school board would agree to overlook the misdemeanour in view of the extenuating circumstances. McGee readily agreed.

Macey, a reasonable cop in his own opinion, saw no point in pursuing the fly-tipping incident, since just about everybody used the quarry as a dumping ground and it would only cause unnecessary paperwork. Don't sweat the small stuff had always been his rule of thumb.

All’s well that ends well, he thought, as he signed off the docket to the case file; although he did wonder how a mother could leave behind her eight-year-old kid. Some people!

Case closed … next case?

A Mrs Mulholland had called in that afternoon and, through the civilian desk clerk, had registered her husband as missing. She was adamant that he might leave her, but he would never leave his beloved dog Sam behind. Something wasn’t right, she maintained. She thought Officer Macey should look into it.

Oh, dear! He was going to have to break the news of Mrs McGee to this lady. All in a day’s work, he thought, with the self-satisfaction of a man who knows he's the best cop in town.
.

The dust hung in the air and filled the lungs of the survivors. The immense power of the enemy had levelled most of the buildings down Parker Street. A great number of army personnel had been wiped out during the first phase of the attack from the beast. Only a handful of military men were left. Joiners, shop keepers, and car park attendants, had been forced into becoming soldiers. However, there would be no training for these unfortunate recruits.

At ground level, the battle was being lost to this gargantuan entity as it dealt blow after blow of destruction. Standing ten stories high and blacker than the night itself, it dominated the sky. Massive tentacle-like arms shot out from the lower part body of the great thing and into the streets of the desolated town. They searched, groping with a hungry exploratory drive, through the few remaining buildings, and under the newly formed rubble. The tips of the appendages spread out over the ground feeling for warm flesh.

Body parts lay strewn all around. The few people that survived the initial onslaught hid from the terror, running from one derelict building to another; always aware of the threat from above. A low, almost inaudible, humming noise came from the creature as it made its way through Old Carling Town. Solitary soldier, Captain Ron Childs, hid behind an overturned car and radioed for help. As he squatted down, something grabbed at his left leg. He drew the side arm, as he had done a thousand times before, and aimed at the target. He was a millisecond from pulling on the trigger. He gasped. A nervous hand slotted the gun back in its holster. A boy, who couldn’t have been much older than eleven years, knelt before him. His clothes were torn but there was no sign of blood.

Ron spoke, “Hey there fella. You lookin' for a bullet in the head?”

A weak voice came from the boy. “Help me. I don't know where I am. I don’t know who....”

Ron helped the boy up and supported his weight against the car. “We need to keep our heads down, or else we'll lose them. So if you could just keep close to me, everything will be fine and dandy, ok?”

“Sure.” Replied the boy.

“Good. What's your name, boy?”

“Sam.”

“Excellent! Good strong name, that! Are you strong enough to run beside me?”

“Yeah....I suppose....”

“Well you're going to need all your strength to get out of this.”

With his back firmly against the car, Ron raised his head to assess the situation. The threat had moved down Old Carling Road and onto the adjacent Patricks Road, taking with it some more buildings. A few gun shots rang out. Terrified screams filled the air as the chaos moved slowly west, taking more lives with it.

“Has it gone yet, mister?” asked the boy.

“I'm not a mister; I'm a Captain, son. But you can call me Ron. I feel we know each well enough, seeing as we've both survived this far.”

Sam looked around at the destruction surrounding him while Captain Ron concentrated his efforts on the radio transmitter.

“C’mon. Work! work! This is Red Fox, can anyone hear me. Repeat. Can anyone hear me?”

A hissing was all that returned from the radio, to start with, then a small crackling, followed by a faint voice.

“This is Red Fox. Do you read?”

A very faint voice replied, “This is Airborne Return. What’s your present position?” By shear chance a military helicopter had picked up the signal. Perhaps there was hope yet. Captain Ron gave the co-ordinates of a possible pick-up point. It was the Town Hall. North of where Ron was. Surely it would still be standing; it was the opposite direction to that of which the raging monster moved.

- - - - - -

“The whole building’s gone! It’s just...” Ron couldn’t finish his sentence before his jaw almost dropped. Ron and Sam had only been travelling for about ten minutes. Surely the thing hadn’t doubled back and headed for their rendezvous. He tried to comprehend how the thing could have gotten to the Town Hall without passing them. It wasn’t even heading in this direction. The Town Hall was missing. A large hole occupied the spot where once there stood a tall and proud building. Now there was nothing. All at once a great shriek came from the pit, as an imposing shape rose from below, casting dirt and rock everywhere. The raging beast appeared like a nightmarish geyser shooting out visions of fear. It seems the thing could move just as well under ground.

“It’s here!” Ron pushed Sam to the ground. Tentacles made their way towards the exhausted pair.

The thing raised its bulk high up, almost leaving the ground. One of the tentacles grabbed hold of Captain Ron and tightening almost crushing his ribs. He was losing consciousness.

“Captain!” Sam yelled in vain. The tentacle started to drag Ron away. There was a great flash of light and a monstrous moan. An intense heat filled the air, making it almost impossible to breath. The thing burned, and the buildings were set alight but Ron wasn’t. The tentacle loosened as it disintegrated with the searing heat.

Just before Captain Ron Childs passed out he thought he saw the figure of a young boy, glowing, floating towards him. It spoke.

“Ron, are you ok? It’s me, Sam! Everything’s going to be ok.”

It was September 1939 and WW11 had started. Farmer Jacob Richardson sat in the old rocker on the front porch of his ram-shackle house. He had turned forty a few days earlier, but his sun wrinkled skin portrayed a much older man. His rough gnarled fingers tapped on the arms of the rocking chair. He rocked intermittently, calming his angry and worried thoughts as he gazed out to the rows of mature sweet potatoes teaming with green heart shaped leaves in the distant field. Jacob had planted the crop two weeks after the last frost, and now it was time to harvest. His family desperately needed the little money this crop would have brought. Now he could not sell it.

Jacob knew his crop was exceptional, but in Hopkins County, Texas there was only one buyer. Roy Blaine was the only one with a truck large enough to haul produce crops the eighty miles to the Dallas markets. He received good prices there, but he paid the farmers little for their hard work. The farmers accepted his dishonest offers because there was no other option. Roy Blaine’s family was not going without, and he did not care if other families were struggling.

Roy had driven out to Jacob’s farm earlier that day.
“Howdy Jacob. I looked over your sweet potato crop driving in. It ain’t much this year.” Roy drawled.

Jacob listened to the man’s dishonest words and felt his anger mounting.
“Roy, you know dang good and well, I have the best crop around these parts.”

“Well, I could stand here and argue with you, but bottom line, I’m giving you twenty-five cents a bushel."

Jacob read the Dallas newspaper that morning and he knew the buying price for sweet potatoes was at three dollars a bushel. His anger exploded.
"I'll feed them taters to the dang pigs first. Now take your greedy tail off my farm!” he’d yelled.

Knowing he’d pushed Jacob too far, Roy had hastily gotten into his truck.
“You call me when you come around Jacob.” With a smug smile, he’d driven off.

After the angry outburst, it had occurred to Jacob that he had no pigs and no money to buy any. He’d sat in the rocking chair thinking over what had happened, and he’d known that his words spoken in anger had not only let himself down but his family as well. Jacob felt as if a part of his manhood was missing. He’d have to figure a way to find it again.

Jacob’s brother Matthew had left a 1937 Oldsmobile coupe behind when he went off to fight in the war. He had told Jacob to sell it for whatever he could get. The tires on the car were bald, and tires were impossible to get with rubber being scarce. The car alone was of no use, but what he could get for the car was. Pigs!

Jacob traded the car for a bore, a sow, and a large litter of piglets. Pork was selling for a premium price due to meat rationing. He'd butchered the bore to feed his family, and in the next few months the pigs thrived on the sweet potato crop and grew big and fat.
When the crop ran out, Jacob made an agreement to buy the waste from the local food locker plant to feed the pigs. The plant would also do the butchering for him. Jacob’s pork was flying out the door in sales. He was in the pig business, and he was feeling like a whole man again.

The years passed and the farm prospered. The children grew up, married, and moved away. Eventually, Jacob and his wife sold the old farm and moved into a small house that their daughter had built for them behind her home in Dallas. The house was comfortable, but there wasn’t much to keep Jacob busy. He still read the newspaper daily and followed the current failing economy. He puttered in the yard and entertained his family with stories when they visited.

Jacob sat in the old rocker on the front porch of his new house. His favorite grandson, who had fallen onto hard times, was visiting. Jacob had just told him the story of the pigs, hoping it would encourage him.

“You are a smart man grandpa.”

“I ain’t sure about that, but as it turned out, it was the most profitable sweet potato crop ever.”

“What happened to Roy? The younger man asked.

“Well, when the war ended, folks bought their own trucks and Roy lost his business. His wife run off with another fella and all Roy had left was that old truck. He’d made a lot of enemies, and no one wanted to help him out. He lost his place and skedaddled. Never heard about him after that.”

“Served him right grandpa.”

“There will always be the Roy’s in our world son. We just have to figure a way to keep them honest.”

The young man nodded.

“Yep, those days held some hard times. I’m afraid they have come back and here we are again, stuck with no pigs, and no farm. Not even a good laying hen.”

“People will figure it out grandpa. Americans always prove their grit, and they sure aren’t missing determination when the chips are down. I’ll figure it out too.

“Where is it?” he yelled as he rummaged through his desk drawers. He began to panic. Time seemed to move faster. He couldn’t find it. His fist created a thud as it hit the desk. He looked left and right tracing his steps backwards. “Ok, I entered the room last night. It was dark, but I remember throwing my shoes there. Then I walked over to my dresser and took off my clothes there.” He pointed a finger as if to confirm to himself that it was true. “I was wearing my blue shirt and my faded jeans. Did I take it with me yesterday?”



Something began to climb his body. He felt as if something heavy was pushing hard and steady against his chest. As if someone or something was hugging him from behind, gentle as it was, he felt the pressure. He took a seat. Closed his eyes. “Deep breathes,” he began to tell himself, “deep breathes...” He dozed off for what felt like thirty seconds. 



As he opened his eyes, he could hear the rain. Rat tat tat, little droplets touching different surfaces creating different sounds. Compelled as he was to doze off again, he sluggishly stood up and wobbled a little as he walked out of the room. “Mom, Dad, is anyone there?” No one answered. His breathes got even shorter. 



He walked to the bathroom sink and splashed cold water on his face. He was telling himself, “don’t panic, deep breathes, you’ll find it.” He walked back to his room and opened all the lights. He opened the window, to let in fresh air. As he did a moist breeze entered the room. Tears began to muster in his eyes. He felt helpless. Looking around his room, he wished he had listened to his parents and kept it clean. It would have been much easier to look for something in a neat room. 



He returned to his desk, calmly. Opened each and every drawer, searching slowly but surely through his desk. He didn't find it. He walked back to his clothes next to the dresser. Checked the pockets for the third time hoping that he didn't look well enough the first two times. He began kicking through the piles of stuff on the floor. 



Now his breathes were painfully hard, and hope of finding it dwelled into despair. He began wheezing, his movements became slower and a veil of blur coated his sight. He couldn’t find it. “What a dimwit I am. How can I not keep a spare for emergencies.” So much for learning from your mistakes, he thought to himself. Giving up hope of finding it, he decided to call 911. He walked out of his room slowly and down the stairs.



Step by step he descended. He could no longer breathe. He walked faster, into the living room. He could see the phone. Ten more steps he told himself. One, two, three, four, five, six and seven he got there three steps less than he anticipated. But now his eyes failed him, he couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe. Leaning on the wall he raised the phone and dialed 911. His knees buckled. He fell to the floor bringing down the phone and the glass table that it rested on. The glass shattered. He didn’t know where the phone was, if it was close or not, it was as if he blacked out but was still conscious. He whispered “Inhaler.”